


la loro perdita

by BedeliaAnneRavenscroft



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Death penalty, F/M, Heavy Angst, Lethal Injection, post-season 3, recaptured by authorities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8675995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft/pseuds/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft
Summary: Muscles in his cheeks twitch, twisting the corners of his lips upward. He offers her one final smile she cannot return lest she shatter her icy facade.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Advanced apologies for the angst. This is set post-season 3, where Hannibal is recaptured by the authorities and sentenced for his crimes.

White and sterile, the room is reminiscent of a hospital ward. The machine near his head tracks his pulse, displaying his heart's steady beat as a series of bumps in the line on its screen.

His face is blank, expressionless, as though the life has already left him. With his arms held out at his sides, tied down like his torso and legs by leather restrains, one would think it impossible for him to appear at peace, though he manages to maintain an affect similar to serenity. Eyes shut against the glaring florescent lights above, he does not look toward the gallery window, instead choosing to roam the corridors of his memory palace one final time.

He visits rooms that have remained locked for years, recalling memories of those lost to him, but finds the pull of another room, one he frequents daily, too strong to resist. Behind its door is what could have been, what would surely have been, if he had listened to her, however rose-tinted it may appear to him now: he imagines endless repetitions of their days and nights together in Europe, holding one another beneath the sheets, foreheads touching, their fingers laced together. It is a continuation of their fairytale that she herself cannot indulge in, not now, not from her place among the throng of observers in the gallery.

She wears a mask of impassivity, eyes focused on the monitor close to his recumbent form, ever conscious of the ticking of the clock and how its hands move too fast for her liking. The others, their faces familiar to both her and him, watch with sharp eyes, their lips pressed into thin lines; most will be at peace after it is all over, when he is cold.

Maroon eyes open, find her face in the crowd and widen, visibly. She expects her composure to crack apart. A lump forms in her throat as their eyes meet.

He remembers receiving her letter, the only one she sent during his incarceration. How the familiar scent of her perfume permeated his cell in the prison and clung to the pages in his hands, as though she misted it over the sheets before sending them. Penned after she received a letter of her own from the FBI, one telling her the date his sentence would be carried out, each word was written with immense care to conceal the tremor in her hands, the perfume sprayed so he would not smell the salt of her tears on the pages.

The hands on the clock move, the minute hand nearing the hour. She does not look away from his eyes as she removes her black leather gloves.

He looks down at her hands, sees what she intended him to see, meets her gaze once again. His eyes glisten like the jewel on her wedding band, and a crystalline droplet spills from the corner of his eye at the sight of her wearing it once more. Her eyes are like ice; she wills them to remain that way.

Muscles in his cheeks twitch, twisting the corners of his lips upward. He offers her one final smile she cannot return lest she shatter her icy facade.

She knows his love for her ice queen exterior and how he would hate to see her shatter now, as the minute hand ticks onto the hour mark, signalling the beginning of the inevitable end to their imperfect fairytale.

 


End file.
